Goldwhiskers (7 page)

The two rats and their captive mouse looked around. The office they were standing in was empty. Not a human was in sight. No one sat at the ornate desk; no one sat on the plush sofa; no one stood by the big window overlooking the Thames.

‘So where is this Goldwhiskers of yours?' whispered Dupont.

A trapdoor in the ceiling clattered open, and a basket appeared, tied to a rope. It descended slowly, settling on to the floor in front of them with a slight bump.

‘Going up?' called a deep, melodious voice from somewhere beyond the trapdoor. ‘Third floor, housewares and fine china! Fifth floor, gentlemen's undergarments!' The voice gave a booming laugh.

‘Ha very ha,' sneered Piccadilly in reply, climbing into the basket. ‘You always were a joker.'

Dupont sniffed the basket suspiciously. It smelled faintly of strawberry jam. His stomach rumbled. He'd only managed to scavenge a bit of bread and cheese at the airport before stowing away on the flight from Oslo, and that was hours ago. He was
starving. A hungry Dupont was a mean Dupont, and he jerked angrily on the leash as he climbed in beside his British colleague. Fumble tumbled over the edge behind him, landing in a dejected heap.

‘Heave away, mouselings!' ordered the deep, melodious voice. The basket swayed back up towards the trapdoor.

As it came to rest on the cubbyhole floor, Piccadilly hopped out and looked around. He gave a low whistle. ‘You must be doing well for yourself,' he said. ‘Your digs are a bit fancier than the last time I was here.'

Dupont stared up at the enormous rat seated in the leather chair before them. The rat's whiskers glittered in the sunlight. ‘Oh, I get it,' he said sarcastically. ‘Gold
whiskers.
I guess that kind of thing passes for clever over here.'

‘Who is your rude friend?' Goldwhiskers asked Piccadilly.

‘He's not my friend,' Piccadilly replied. ‘But his name is Dupont.'

‘Ah, yes,' said Goldwhiskers.

Dupont swelled importantly. ‘I take it you've heard of me,' he gloated. ‘The name's Roquefort Dupont, actually. Great-great-great-great-great –'

Goldwhiskers flicked his paw, cutting him off. ‘Yes,
yes, I know,' he said with a yawn. ‘Related to Camembert Dupont, who used to live in a castle, et cetera, et cetera. Current headquarters in a sewer beneath Dupont Circle in Washington DC.'

Dupont looked stunned. He wasn't used to being interrupted. He didn't like being interrupted. His eyes blazed an angry red.

Stilton Piccadilly gave him a warning kick. ‘We've known each other a long time, right, Double G?' he said, laughing nervously and inching closer to the leather chair.

‘Aha!' said Goldwhiskers. ‘I thought as much. The only time my old sewer mates look me up is when they need something. Out with it, then. What is it you want?'

Piccadilly flushed. ‘Just to give you the chance to return a favour, that's all,' he said. ‘You haven't forgotten all those times I saved your tail, have you? Back when you were just plain old ordinary Double Gloucester Whiskers?'

‘That was a very long time ago,' said Goldwhiskers silkily. ‘Another life. It can be dangerous, stirring up the past.'

Piccadilly squirmed. ‘I need your help. A favour. For old times' sake.'

Briefly, he outlined the events of the past month – the showdown with the mice and their human friends in New York, which had gone unexpectedly sour; the disastrous balloon crossing over the Atlantic – and how tomorrow night's Christmas Eve gala at the Royal Opera House offered them a sudden, unexpected opportunity for revenge.

‘Revenge?' said Goldwhiskers. He shook his head in disgust. ‘Will you sewer crawlers never learn? You're no better than cats – so busy chasing mice you never look up long enough to see there's a better way to do business.' He gestured at his lavish lair. ‘Look at all this! Do you really want to live underground forever, eating nothing but human rubbish?'

Dupont nudged Piccadilly. ‘See? That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you! We could be living in a castle!'

Goldwhiskers snorted. ‘A castle? Oh, please. Have you ever actually visited a castle, Dupont? They're drafty and cold and full of mildew.' He shivered dramatically, then gazed around his snug cubbyhole with satisfaction. ‘Give me a penthouse in the city any day of the week.'

Piccadilly shook his head stubbornly. ‘Revenge is
the rat way, Double G. Claws and jaws! Have you forgotten that?'

Goldwhiskers inspected his own manicured claws. ‘That is so twentieth century,' he replied. ‘And so typical of you, old chap. You have no vision. If you want to get ahead, you need to get with the programme. Upgrade. Set your sights higher. Otherwise, you'll be left in the dust. Even the mice are more advanced than you.'

‘What are you talking about, “upgrade”?' Dupont burst out resentfully. ‘We can read!'

‘About time,' sneered Goldwhiskers.

Dupont lunged. Piccadilly jerked him back.

‘Rats what wants favours should show more respect,' whispered Goldwhiskers, his cultured accent slipping a bit. His eyes glinted dangerously.

The phone on the table beside the red leather chair interrupted them with a shrill ring. Twist, who had been watching the proceedings wide-eyed, leaped straight up into the air in alarm and came down on Farthing's tail. The tiny mouseling squealed and puddled on the carpet.

‘Silence!' ordered Goldwhiskers. He glared at Farthing. ‘Someone clean up that mess! And get this creature out of my sight!'

As the still-squealing Farthing was hustled off towards the far corner of the cubbyhole, Dodge hopped on to the table. She leaped on to the speakerphone button and nodded at Goldwhiskers.

‘D. G. Whiskers, Esquire,' said the big rat.

A voice on the other end of the phone launched into a rapid-fire report. Dupont and Piccadilly strained to decipher the words, but they made no sense at all.

‘Yes,' said Goldwhiskers. ‘Yes, I see. Very wise, Fleming. You have my permission to sell.' He nodded to Dodge, who leaped on to the button again in response, ending the call.

‘My broker,' Goldwhiskers explained to his guests with a wink. ‘Oil has peaked.'

‘You have a stockbroker? A
human
stockbroker?' asked Dupont.

‘Of course. Don't you?' replied Goldwhiskers with a smug smile.

Roquefort Dupont stared at the big rat. He was beginning to feel inferior. Dupont didn't like feeling inferior. He was accustomed to being the meanest, most powerful rodent everywhere he went. A tidal wave of rage surged through him. It was time to knock this big, arrogant rat off his leather chair and
on to his big, arrogant tail. Dupont lunged forward.

Once again, Piccadilly jerked him back.

‘I'll let you two chaps in on a little secret,' said Goldwhiskers, leaning forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You know what makes the world go round? It's not revenge. It's not claws and jaws. It's
money
.'

Stilton Piccadilly and Roquefort Dupont eyed him suspiciously.

Goldwhiskers nodded. ‘That's right, chaps. Our ancestors did live in castles, and you can live in castles again – if you're dead set on it. Or in penthouses or villas, or aboard yachts. Anywhere you please. But you're not going to get there by feuding with the short-tails. That misses the entire point. One thing and one thing only is going to land you in the lap of luxury, and that's cold, hard cash.'

‘And where exactly do you get this cold, hard cash?' scoffed Piccadilly.

A crafty look settled over Goldwhiskers's snout. ‘I have my ways.' There was a knock at the door of the office below. ‘That will be lunch,' he said. ‘Silence again, everyone! Dodge?' He motioned to his valet, who leaped on to another button on the table beside him, this one for the intercom. ‘May I help you?' she said politely into the speaker.

‘Delivery for D. G. Whiskers, Esquire,' came the reply.

‘Place it on the floor to the right of the door, please,' instructed Dodge. ‘You'll find an envelope there waiting for you.'

‘Right. Ta, luv.'

Goldwhiskers flicked his tail towards a screen that hung on the wall opposite from them. ‘Take a look at this,' he said. ‘My latest toy. Cost me a pretty penny.'

Dupont and Piccadilly watched as Dodge leaped on to yet another button, activating the surveillance camera. An image flashed onscreen: the office door and the hallway beyond. A human delivery boy placed a large box on the floor, collected the payment envelope that had been placed there for him, and walked briskly away.

Goldwhiskers grinned at his visitors. ‘See? This is what money can do for a rat with vision. Everything I could possibly want, delivered right to my doorstep.'

‘Don't they get suspicious?' asked Dupont, fascinated in spite of himself.

‘The humans?' Goldwhiskers shook his head. ‘Suspicious of a businessman who's a bit of a recluse? Who's a bit eccentric? Come now, surely even an ignorant Yank like yourself must know that London
is full of eccentrics. What's one more? Especially one who tips as well as I do.'

The mangy hackles on the back of Dupont's thick neck bristled angrily at the insult, but before he could reply, Goldwhiskers cracked his tail. ‘Fetch, mouselings!' he ordered, and the orphans sprang into action. A dozen or so leaped into the empty basket; the rest lined up along the rope and lowered it through the trapdoor to the office below.

‘Watch and learn, chaps – watch and learn,' said Goldwhiskers to his visitors proudly. ‘You can't lead the high life without an entourage.' He eyed Fumble pointedly, then smirked at Dupont. ‘And one pathetic mouse doesn't count.'

Goldwhiskers turned back to his mouselings. ‘That's right,' he said soothingly. ‘Your obedience makes Master so happy. And you mouselings like to make Master happy, don't you? When Master is happy, everyone is happy. Master gives food. Master gives warmth. Master gives all good things.'

‘We thank you kindly, Master, giver of all that is good,' chanted the mice in automatic reponse.

As Roquefort Dupont listened, he pictured himself seated in a big red leather chair back in his lair at Dupont Circle. He pictured himself with mice to do
his bidding and humans at his beck and call. A smile creased his hideous snout. He liked what he saw.

‘Money can do this, you say?' he demanded. ‘Cold, hard cash?'

Goldwhiskers nodded, and Dupont chewed on his thin rat lip thoughtfully.

‘Where would mouselings be without Master?' Goldwhiskers continued. ‘On the street! No one wants useless orphans. No one but Master. And what happens to
lazy, disobedient mouselings
?' The big rat's voice rose sharply, and the orphans quailed. ‘That's right! The
oubliette
!'

‘The oobly-what?' whispered Dupont.

Piccadilly shrugged. ‘Not a clue.'

‘“Oubliette”,' Fumble replied listlessly from behind them. ‘It comes from French. It means “forgotten place”. He's talking about a dungeon.'

‘Which reminds me,' added Goldwhiskers. ‘Where's Farthing? An extra slice of cheese for whoever brings me my naughty pet!'

The mice who weren't pulling on the dumb waiter's rope scattered in search of the youngest orphan. A tiny squeak of alarm was heard in the shadows as someone nabbed him, and Farthing was duly dragged back to the red leather chair.

Goldwhiskers glared down at him. ‘Haven't I warned you about my carpet?'

Farthing popped his tail into his mouth and sucked on it anxiously.

‘Don't you want to stay here, close to Master, where Master can feed you and take care of you and keep you safe?'

Farthing nodded, his bright little eyes wide with fear.

‘Then why do you keep PUDDLING ON MY CARPET?' roared Goldwhiskers. ‘Master has no choice but to put you back in the oubliette until you learn some manners!'

‘I need an oubliette,' said Dupont enviously as the tiny orphan was seized and dragged away. He yanked on Fumble's lead, and the mouse toppled nose-first on to the floor. ‘Remind me to build one when I get back to Washington.'

‘Yes, boss,' said Fumble tonelessly.

Behind them, the basket swayed up through the trapdoor, piled with packages and mice. Goldwhiskers rubbed his paws together with greedy glee. ‘Smoked salmon, crackers, an assortment of cheeses and, for the main course, wild-mushroom pie. Oh, and, for dessert, fresh raspberries and whipped cream.'

Roquefort Dupont's stomach growled loudly.

‘Fresh raspberries? In December?' Piccadilly was incredulous.

‘I ordered them online this morning. You can get anything at Fortnum and Mason's,' Goldwhiskers explained. ‘All it takes is money.'

‘Quite the racket you've got going here,' said Dupont with grudging admiration.

‘One does one's best,' Goldwhiskers replied modestly.

‘So, will you help us, Double G?' asked Piccadilly.

Goldwhiskers frowned. ‘What's in it for me, chaps? I assume you haven't any cash to offer.'

Piccadilly scratched a filthy ear, considering. ‘How about membership in the GRR?'

‘Your silly little club?' Goldwhiskers laughed scornfully, and Dupont's hackles rose again. ‘I have no interest in petty rodent politics. Let's take a look and see what else you might have to offer me.' He clapped his paws. Dodge sprang to attention. ‘Laptop, please,' ordered the big rat. Dodge gave a sharp whistle, and the mouselings crowded round a rolling table, angling it in front of the red leather chair.

Dupont and Piccadilly watched in astonished silence as Goldwhiskers reached out his tail and tapped rapidly on the keyboard. Dupont felt another
swelling of inferiority, followed quickly by envy, then fury.

‘Let's see what Mr Google has to say about our visitors,' said Goldwhiskers, talking softly to himself as he typed. ‘Ah, here we are. Christmas Eve gala at the Royal Opera House, followed by an exclusive reception. That much we know already. Wait, here's a news update from Reuters. Looks like they arrived at Heathrow safe and sound and checked into the Savoy. How convenient – they're right next door.'